A Shadow in the Dark
by Sylvie Orp
Summary: A case for the police leads a trail to CI5
1. Chapter 1

_A case for the police leads a trail to CI5_

It is said that killing is the easy part; it's disposing of the body which is the difficult bit. I've read enough crime novels (both English and American; both fiction and factual) to know that buried bodies don't always stay buried for long. Those that rise to the surface are riddled with forensic details. The net closes; the killer sweats it out; but the handcuffs eventually click. Well, I've done my homework and I haven't been caught yet. The bodies – my bodies – are in full view and there's nothing on police records to attach them to me. After all, if you dust for fingerprints, you have to have something to compare them with. Right?

It's midnight on a dark, wet, awful night. Just the kind of night I've been waiting for. The boozers are spilling out. Those too drunk to think weave their way to the car park and try to find the right key for the right car. Those with a little less in their bellies go off in taxis with waves and hugs and "See yah," yelled across the night. All this I've observed through the long, endless evenings. My target tonight is looking for a taxi. He's usually one of the last to leave 'The Mornington'. I ease my black car in his direction. I've picked up punters before and dropped them home. There's nothing like familiarity to let the guard down. I cruise over to Mr X. I don't know his name, and I've no intention of finding out. I know where he lives as I've given him a lift before. No messing about, nothing to get worried about. All nice and smooth. Mr X gets in. This night will be different though – he just doesn't know it yet. I smile my guileless smile as he slips in the back, stumbling as he always does. Drink and co-ordination don't sit well with him. He starts up some long and involved tale about god knows what and I interject with a 'Really" and "Is that right?" just to jolly him along; as though I'm actually listening.

Why do I want to kill this man? He's done nothing wrong; we have no history between us. He's married (that much I do know from what he's said in the past) and probably has a boring job (that much he hasn't said). So what's the problem? Oh, no problem. It's just that I like puzzles. I like to pit myself against Fate. I don't go in for judo or unarmed combat, or anything of that sort. No. The knife's my thing. Quick, largely painless, and little forensic evidence to leave behind. You're right, I do enjoy my work. I enjoy the planning, the random choosing of a target. No, I don't know why they're always men. Perhaps they're more of a challenge than women. Perhaps I don't like violence against the female sort. I don't know. It just is. Perhaps a psychiatrist can explain it to us both. It's bound to go back to my childhood! Mr X is my fourth victim. I don't like that word – victim - it smacks of weakness and intimidation. These men aren't weak (as far as I know) and I don't intimidate them (for long). But I can't find another word for what I do.

Anyway, it's a while before Mr X realises that we're not taking the usual route. He asks why and I say that there are roadworks. He, like the others who have gone before him, accepts this and he sits back to enjoy the ride. These men are usually asleep, or half way gone, by the time I reach my destination. Always a different part of town. I don't stray too far though. I don't want my 'fare' getting into a panic. We're usually arrived by the time the punter realises that we've reached our journey's end.

I pull up at a disused, crumbling factory site. I get out quickly before Mr X can react. I open the rear door and pull a gun on him. It's an old cap pistol and you couldn't shoot an apple in a barrel with it. But do _you_ know what a real gun looks like? Do _you_ know what a real marksman looks like? No, of course you don't. You just see the barrel of something nasty pointed steadily in your face and the blank look of a killer at the other end. I like that bit; the shift from happy drunk, to stone cold sober in the matter of moments. I grin as Mr X stumbles out of the car and asks what's going on. "Well, let's find out shall we?" I say as he moves forward into the darkness, tripping on the uneven ground. He burbles about his wife and kids. I take no notice. We keep moving – he ahead, me two steps behind. Unseen by him, I slip the useless firearm back into the left pocket and draw out a knife from my right. "This is far enough." He gets to asking why, when I slip the blade between his ribs before he has a chance to turn round. I know well now the exact spot to choose. As he slumps, I ease him to the ground, not wanting to get too close to him. I hear the air expelling from him. His last breath. I stay with him for a few moments, despite the heavy rain. A kind of communion I suppose. I feel it important to be with him on his last journey.

Satisfied, I turn away to have a pee when I see someone at my car. I'd left the keys in and the bastard was going to go off with it. I run forward, shouting. I'm quicker than he thinks and he abandons the car and runs off. I don't know if he's seen what I've done but I'm not prepared to take any chances. I'm quickly gaining on him. Then I fall over something in the dark and the knife slips out of my wet hand and gets lost in the debris somewhere. I don't have time to look for it, but make a mental note of the spot. The thief is disappearing round a corner. I scoop up a piece of abandoned rope lying there as I get to my knees and I'm off again. My legs hurt but there's no time for that now; no time for anything. I find the pursuit of my quarry exhilarating. I've never done this before. The thief isn't as fit as I, and I eventually catch up with him. He made the mistake of not looking back to see how far behind I was; perhaps he thought he didn't have time. But I'm there, sonny, right behind you. Death is on your heels. I wait till I'm only a foot-stride behind and then I push him to the ground. He rolls and, caught in the same momentum, I catapult over him. Ok, I can't think of every eventuality, can I? What I don't want is a catfight. If he lives round here, he's probably a street fighter, and I know my limits. But I recover first and shuffle rapidly on my ailing knees towards him before he can get up. We're both breathing very hard; saturated to our bones. I throw myself on top of him and get the rope quickly around his neck. I'm not a big man, not a heavy man, but I am a strong man. I can't afford for him to roll on his back and start wrestling. I tug the rope around his thick neck and turn and turn. He scratches awkwardly at my hands, writhing, gasping. I ride him like a tiger, not daring to let go. Eventually his struggling eases, his breath comes in short pants, until not at all. I still cling on. I've never done it this way before. I don't know how long it takes. Eventually the fire drains from me. The danger has passed. I drag myself off his body and stare down at him, exhausted. I don't want to see his face. I feel sad. I'm not one for introspection, and the emotion surprises me. Mr X had more to lose than this waster, but I guess I hadn't grown to know him. I hadn't taken him for 'taxi' rides; I hadn't stalked him or spoken to him. But I had to kill him. He was a witness. You do see that, don't you?

I go back to where I think the knife was dropped and hunt around in the dark for it wondering why I never carry a torch with me. Then I hear a car. There's a road not far away, but this engine is getting closer. To my surprise it's heading my way. I throw myself onto the ground but I'm sure that I haven't been spotted. The headlights are away to my left. The driver seems to know where he's going and is unaware of me. I lie flat in the muck and the wet for a while longer. The car pulls up at the factory building itself. The lights are extinguished and I hear a car door opening then slamming. I can't see much from this distance but I feel it too risky to head towards him to get my car. I'll have to abandon it. Why would anyone want to come out in this weather to this god-awful place? A clandestine meeting crosses my mind – drugs perhaps. My imagination goes into overdrive. It's those damned crime books I've been reading. Well, whatever the driver wants here, it's none of my business. I abandon my search for the knife and hope that the rain has washed off any forensics (ditto the two bodies out here). I get into a crouching position. My knees protest again, but there's no other way. Standing up would give too much away, even in this light, and, as you know, I'm not a man who takes chances. My main concern now is any evidence left in the car. It's stolen with false number plates. (I've managed to get away with using it for nearly four months now; but I only use it for my 'taxi fares'.) But it's too risky to make a go for it now. Perhaps – just perhaps – I'll be able to retrieve it in the morning and drive it back to the safe place I have. I don't want to hang around here waiting for the mystery driver to leave, so it was a wet and very long way home. Once the adrenalin had drained away it was all I could do to put one foot in front of another. I didn't want to take a bus – there were still one or two night buses cruising around – as I didn't want any clever driver or passenger remembering me.

I was feeling very sorry for myself as I let myself in quietly to my bedsit. I was shaking with cold. I didn't want to wake the neighbours by taking a bath in these early hours, so scrubbed myself down with a wet towel, convinced I'd have pneumonia by dawn. I usually lie on my bed after such adventures, reliving the moments, but that bastard had spoiled all that by stumbling into the drama. You're not convinced that I should have killed him, are you? Well you have a conscience, I don't. That's the difference between us.


	2. Chapter 2

Bodie was out of sorts as Doyle drove them to the rendezvous in the pouring rain. Not for the first time on the journey he'd complained of being called out of an evening on a 'fool's errand'. Doyle had kept his silence. He knew, happily, that this strategy got up Bodie's nose. The car bumped and jogged across the uneven ground of the old factory site. The two agents noticed a car across the yard with the rear door open. They said nothing, but Doyle made a mental note to investigate when they were done here – rain or no rain; Bodie's moaning or no.

They quickly got out of the car and ran into the disused warehouse. There was the sound of running water as the rain got in amongst the ruins. But they found a dry spot by the door and waited for their contact. They stamped their feet – confident that they wouldn't be heard – and blew on their cold hands to keep the circulation going.

"Another 5 minutes, Doyle, then I'm out of here."

Doyle couldn't help but agree with him. Bozo was often late – if he came at all – but when he did turn up, he usually had some tasty tips to share. He'd made contact earlier that evening and sounded excited on the phone. As usual, he hadn't given any specifics. The rain stopped as quickly as it had started and Bodie made for their car. The five minutes were up. Doyle reluctantly trailed after him. He looked over again at the abandoned vehicle. In this area such a car would either be used for 'joy riding' or be burnt to a cinder, so it couldn't have been here long. He wandered over to it, deep in thought. Bodie followed. He too was puzzled. It was as they approached the car that Bodie spotted something else and veered off. Doyle took a cursory glance inside the vehicle, but nothing held his attention (he'd check the boot later) so trotted over to his mate. They both looked down at a young male lying in the dirt. Even in the poor light, they could see the ligature around his neck. Doyle took a small torch from his inside pocket and shone it on the face. It was Bozo. Doyle whistled softly through his teeth.

"I guess we won't be getting any more morsels from him," Bodie commented unnecessarily.

Doyle had been poking around the area, mindful that it was a crime scene, but couldn't find anything of interest other than the rope around the corpse's neck.

"We'd better radio it in," Doyle said sadly, straightening up.

The rain had begun again and they just made it to their car before they got too wet.

"Would that be his car?" There was a lot of doubt in Bodie's voice as he peered through the misty windscreen.

"Not unless he's robbed a bank." Doyle replied confidently.

They both looked at the car again, each lost in their own theory.

Eventually a police siren was heard and a few minutes later a CI5 car joined them. They all gathered in the shelter of the old factory. Bodie and Doyle told their audience what little they knew: that they'd a whisper from a contact and so they had come out here, as requested, to find out what the snippet was. They were too late. Since the rain had eased, they wandered over to the crime scene.

"Who else knew that he was coming here?" one of the officers asked as they viewed the body.

"No idea. I can't imagine that he'd want to broadcast what he was up to," Doyle replied.

Any further question or answer was cut off by Benson, CI5. He called them over across the yard.

"There's another one," he said as they joined him.

Soon they were looking down at another corpse. Doyle and one of the coppers crouched by the body while PC Collins shone a torch on the scene. There was no rope, but it was a body all right.

"Jesus," exclaimed Collins, "how many more are there?" He peered into the wet darkness as though expecting a massacre.

No-one had any answers for him. Collins' colleague, Patel, and CI5 made their respective calls for backup. This was looking like a joint op. Since they couldn't all get into one car, they adjourned back to the factory to pool their meagre resources.

"Did you know him?" asked Bodie of his partner.

Doyle shook his head, looking at the police. "New one on me," said PC Patel. "If you're saying," he continued thoughtfully, "that you know Body A …," he pointed back towards the factory yard.

"Bozo," Doyle supplied.

"… does that mean that this Bozo has any connection with Body B?"

It was unusual for informers to come in groups or pairs, and the bodies were quite far apart, with the mystery car in the middle. The men all viewed the scene, trying to piece together what had happened.

"I think we can reasonably say that they didn't kill each other," Doyle eventually conjectured. "The car may belong to Body B. And …" Doyle petered off, having exhausted his theories.

"Bozo could have killed … " persisted Patel.

"No," Doyle interrupted. "Bozo couldn't kill a fly. He's all mouth – was." Doyle shook his head at the thought. But there was, of course, an outside possibility … "Even if he did," he conceded after a long silence, "who then killed Bozo?"

"A mate. A revenge killing?"

"… who just happened to be here at the time?" Bodie scoffed. Patel looked chastened.

They had run out of theories and counter-theories. The pathologist would have to ascertain time of death, and it was looking as if the two had been killed at around the same time, so that wasn't going to add much to their speculations. Perhaps the manner of deaths would tell them something, but Doyle put a safer bet on the car telling them something more. It was a pity, he thought, that he hadn't had chance to turn the car over and explore the boot. It suddenly occurred to him that there may be a third body there! He shook his head. No, one step at a time.


	3. Chapter 3

Cowley knew instinctively which battles to try for and which to withdraw from; which cases to take and which to hand over to others. While Bozo was one of their (casual) informers, Cowley had too much on his plate at the moment to deal with his death, so he handed the case over to the police on condition that he be kept informed of any developments.

Bodie and Doyle were assigned a case up north involving arms smuggling and, if rumour were true, people smuggling. They'd done well there and reported back with vital information on movements, strength of the opposition, even some names. It was enough for Cowley to mount an operation. With only one operative injured and only two gangsters killed, it was classed as a resounding success – not that Cowley would put it into so many words, of course!

Bodie and Doyle had had two days off following Operation Teapot (don't ask!) and, rested, they were now eagerly sitting in front of the Cow for their next assignment.

"You'll remember the death of one of our informants, gentlemen, a week ago," Cowley started off.

"Bozo," Doyle suggested.

Cowley nodded, shuffling some papers. "The second body has been identified as Mr Ralf Cuthbertson, an estate agent. Married with two children. In debt, drank heavily and had a string of affairs." Cowley tutted at the vagaries of the human soul. His agents weren't going to start a moral argument and so waited. "The police can't find any connection between Bozo – real name Mr Thomas White – "

Doyle whistled through his teeth. "All the years I've known him, I never knew his name." The thought saddened him even though his contact with Bozo had been very infrequent.

Cowley frowned at being interrupted. "… between Bozo and Mr Cuthbertson. What they have found is that Cuthbertson had been in the back of the car, but Bozo hadn't. The pathologist puts the time of death as between 8pm and midnight when you found them. He believes that they were both killed at around the same time – one strangled, the other knifed. Despite the heavy rain, forensics were able to ascertain that the men were killed by the same hand."

"Despite a different MO?" Doyle queried. His second interruption didn't go down well either.

"You may be interested to know," Cowley rumbled, "that these deaths are also being connected with three other murders within a 20 mile radius – all on waste ground and all – except Bozo – knifed. And, before you interrupt, Doyle, different knives."

Bodie smirked and Doyle's mind went into overdrive. After a few moments cogitation, he conjectured, "Bozo may have seen Mr Cuthbertson being killed and was killed because of it."

"Why not knife him, too?" Bodie countered.

"Perhaps because," Cowley interjected, "the knife was found some distance from either body. The theory is that the knifeman dropped the knife when he went after Bozo and couldn't find it in the dark, so used some rope lying about."

The men nodded. There was certainly a lot of debris out there – rubble, burnt-out cars, rope, mangled metal, etc. Yes, they could see it happening. That it had occurred just as they were arriving at the scene was chilling. Doyle couldn't help but think that he may have been able to save Bozo if they'd been a little earlier.

Cowley shrugged, as though putting a line under the matter. "So, to your assignment for today. A stake out –"

It was Bodie who interrupted this time - with a groan. Cowley chose to ignore him – as well as Doyle's smirk.


	4. Chapter 4

No, I don't know how they rumbled me, but they have. I'd just put away another customer – how sweet that was – and was just about to get into the car when they were on to me. I abandoned the car and ran into the warehouse and hid under some stairs but they seemed to have x-ray vision and soon smoked me out.

"Stop or we'll fire!" a bloke yelled as I retreated to another part of the warehouse.

He's armed? I managed to take a look at one of them. He was scruffily dressed and he had something nasty in his hand. He wasn't bluffing then. But he's not a copper, from the state of him – unless he'd been dragged off duty because he'd got an arms certificate. I heard a ping ricocheting off the wall not far from me. It was from another direction. Christ, how many of them were there? Yes, I know that the sensible thing was to surrender but you should know me by now. I like a challenge. I danced about a bit, trying to get to higher and higher ground, keeping to the shadows as much as I could. I wasn't familiar with the area or the depot but the full moon was helping me to find my feet. I was trying to be as quiet as I could but these blokes were good. Another bullet nearly found me and had me scuttling for cover.

"Come on, stop messing about!" The same voice again. It sounded close.

I made it up onto the roof and looked for a fire escape or a route over the roofs. I kept into the deep shadows. I felt safer there. But as I was quickly scanning, a voice made me jump. He seemed just inches from me.

"Raise your hands nice and slow," he said.

"Wide and clear," his mate added.

I wondered if there were just the two of them. It made me laugh to think that they may be worried about my little cap pistol! I turned and looked into their eyes – from one to the other. I wondered if I looked like that when 'my gentlemen' got out of the car for their last journey. Their eyes looked cold and mean. Like me, they weren't angry; just getting on with their job. They looked like silver ghosts lit up in the moonlight like that - the ghosts of my gentlemen past. I backed away, aware that there wasn't much roof behind me and a long drop below. They slowly advanced. They seemed a little unsure of exactly where I was in the darkness but I wasn't going to underestimate their intelligence. These men looked like professionals.

"Come on," curly-hair wheedled, "you're not going anywhere. We just want to talk."

I wasn't going to be cajoled, or convinced either. You can see that, can't you? I had to do what I did next because there wasn't a Plan B. I couldn't out-gun them. They seemed very at home with their weapons. They used their armoury as easily as you or I use a knife and fork. The gun seemed a part of them. I certainly couldn't fight them hand-to-hand, man-to-man, or even use the knife which I was cradling in my pocket like a talisman. So I did what I had to. I moved backwards towards the precipice. I knew that I couldn't stop moving otherwise my nerve would go. Curly-hair seemed to know what was in my mind and jumped towards me. I was too far away and I stepped backwards quickly into a nothingness. I'd like to say that I had profound thoughts before my head struck the concrete below, or that I confessed my sins, but it was all too quick. The air was forced out of my lungs in that long plunge, and it was all my body seemed to concern itself with – forcing oxygen in. But it was too late. It was all too late. Crack, and I was gone. As quick as that.

It took a moment for Bodie and Doyle to realise what had happened. They looked at each other in the moonlight but had no answers. They eventually came round and then raced downstairs and out into the yard. It didn't take them long to find the casualty. It was clear – it always had been – that there was nothing they could do for him. You didn't survive a fall onto concrete from that height. Doyle shone his torch on the shattered remains of the man. He looked quizzically at Bodie.

"That's not Henson!" he exclaimed.

A cold feeling claimed them both.

"Our little pigeon told us that Henson was receiving here," Bodie insisted.

"Well if he was, he's changed his looks from his mug shot," Doyle said, examining the corpse.

Bodie had a horrible feeling that, if it weren't Henson – drug dealer and general racketeer – then it was an unarmed civilian that they'd effectively pushed off a cliff this night.

Doyle found something in the pocket and held it up to the light. "I don't think you'd hit much with that," he commented, handing it up to his mate.

Bodie took a cursory glance at the little cap pistol. Doyle was right, but it did mean that, technically at least, this bugger had been armed. Doyle was still going through pockets.

"And what have we got here?" he asked rhetorically, having got out his hanky, finally remembering about forensics. He got up from kneeling next to the corpse, satisfied that it hadn't anything much more to yield up. The pair looked at a bloody knife.

"You don't think …?" Bodie tried to put it into words.

"… that this could be the knife killer? Well, the weapon's right, the venue's right …"

"… now all we need is a corpse!"

The men smiled at each other, relieved that they hadn't killed an innocent civilian after all and that the Cow couldn't be too cross with them. They had set off to catch a racketeer and had caught a killer instead. Their job often yielded unexpected results.


End file.
